Waking up this morning, the milliner turns to me and says, “Happy birthday, honey.” Still groggy, I make a quick calculation in my mind and think, wait, we’re not already in March, are we? Because, wow, that was a long sleep. I might be late for work. After a delay, I realise that, hey, it’s December 13.
Wow, 11 years later. I amaze myself sometimes. Top of the world, ma! Top of the world!
Got a call on Saturday from an old friend, asking if I wanted to go to tonight’s hockey game against the bad Bruins. (In this case, “bad” meaning, well, bad.) Fuck, would I ever. Thinking back on it, I realised that I’ve only been to one hockey game before in my lifetime, in 1970, the Habs vs the Blackhawks.
So cool, good (manly) times ahead. Get some “steamies” and greasy fries at a local casse-croûte, swill watered-down expensive beer at the game, try to not get into a fight with drunken Boston retahds, and then head with the boys to the nearest nudie bar to ogle silicone-implanted pole-dancers.
Does it get any better than this? Okay, sleeping and snoring on the sofa won’t be great, but it’s a small price to pay.